


Reconciliation

by AmunetMana



Series: The Hybrids [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Modification, Heart-to-Heart, Hurt/Comfort, Lastlight is Not Okay, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Transformation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 18:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14836491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmunetMana/pseuds/AmunetMana
Summary: Months after Ronon chose to go with Lastlight, Lastlight’s existence has begun to overflow with new life and feeling he had thought long gone. But he is tired, his grip ever slipping, and there are so many ways to die these days.Sequel to Rememberance.





	Reconciliation

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel!! After 2 years!! Did you know, I actually started writing this the same day I posted the last part? Whoops.

Even now, Lastlight can't bring himself to take anything from Ronon Dex. Perhaps –  perhaps in taking Ronon’s humanity, in that single instance, he had fulfilled some cosmic quota. Lastlight had taken all there was to take – there was simply nothing left. He hadn't thought there was anything left. What could _possibly_ be left?

 

Ronon kissed him.

 

Not – not right away, not for a long while, but…he did. He _did_. He has.

 

Several times, really. Each as dizzying and shattering as the last. They'd been running, a familiar activity to the both of them by then. From wraith, _that_ time, seeking to erase the mistake that is Lastlight's very being. The two of them had tumbled through the Stargate, Lastlight lingering just a shade too long until Ronon had half dragged Lastlight away from the DHD.

 

The fury in Ronon’s eyes hadn’t been dissimilar to that when he had remembered. Remembered his past, remembered all Lastlight had stolen. At least, Lastlight had thought so at first, but that – that would have been ridiculous. That wouldn’t have made _any_ sense.

 

"You weren't going to move! You were going to die! You _can't_! You don't _get_ to die!"

 

_You don't get to leave me._

 

Kiss.

 

Then another. The first is uncertain and pained, the second is –

 

Lastlight's physiology doesn't allow for human displays such as blushing, or a squirming stomach. It _does_ allow for breathlessness, and a lightheaded joy that is so alien that Lastlight briefly considers that Ronon has poisoned him in punishment, for daring to linger in danger. He hasn't. Ronon wouldn’t. Lastlight doesn't die – not yet. _I’m sorry_ , Lastlight tries to say, as he kisses back. _I’m sorry. It’s not my choice anymore. I’m sorry, I forgot, I can’t, I mustn’t, you_ –

 

They have a ship, for the moment. Wraith. It’s something of a luxury and had been difficult to procure. Lastlight experiences the strange sensation of belonging-not-belonging in the organic halls, ( _it’s his place but not, they’ve driven you out, no one wants you, no one_ -) but Ronon is by his side, or at his back, constant and reassuring. Ronon has no interest in learning to fly it despite Lastlight offering, but Lastlight doesn't mind. He appreciates having his mind occupied.

 

Ronon doesn’t want to go back to Atlantis. Not yet, at least.

 

_(You don't get to die.)_

 

Lastlight doesn’t intend to push him either way, no matter how Ronon’s choice may rip him apart.

 

Ronon grows bored after a time flying - it is in both their interests to take regular breaks lest Ronon's choices in amusing himself are distracting enough to cause Lastlight to make mistakes. Not that he'd say as much to Ronon - he's embarrassed at how quickly Ronon takes his attention and keeps it with no active effort on his part.

 

He cannot blush, his stomach cannot squirm.

 

_(He remembers when he could.)_

_(He sometimes sickly sweet wishes he_ _still could.)_

 

They sleep in the ship, and Lastlight has learnt that Ronon will not protest him moving close to do so. He hadn't initiated it himself, but as soon as he had pressed himself slowly, _slowly_ , one tentative finger after another -

 

Ronon had rolled over to throw his arm over Lastlight, warm and beating alive and _whole_ , and Lastlight realised he had been played. Ronon had wanted it as much as him, but he'd wanted Lastlight to make the first move. It had bristled, sickened Lastlight's stomach as he realised he had taken – just as he'd promised himself he would never again. He'd convinced himself – lied and bartered with himself that sleeping close, he was only sleeping close –

 

It had been taking all the same.

 

How Ronon could stand it, Lastlight couldn't conceive. The guilt was crushing.

 

He tinkers, whenever they are safe. Safe being of course, a relative term these days. Ronon never asks what he’s working on, and Lastlight never volunteers the information. It wouldn’t interest Ronon, he thinks. It shouldn’t interest him. Lastlight remembers Ronon’s constant questioning back at the base where Lastlight had kept him prisoner - back where they’d both been wraith. The thought makes Lastlight’s body clench like a fist – like the lips of a feeding slit as it pieces through clothing and skin to the warm life below. Lastlight doesn’t want to miss Clear. He doesn’t want to separate Clear into a separate entity from Ronon in his head either, but he is not doing well at accomplishing either task. Ronon is warm, whether life force drips from him or not, and he is affectionate, and pushes and _gives_ , but it is always tempered with loss and a worn, jaded look. Lastlight wonders if Ronon realises he sees. Lastlight wishes that he didn’t mind the look in Ronon’s eyes. But it is too much of a mirror, and Lastlight cannot stand to see himself reflected in anything anymore.

 

He misses innocence. Even the innocence of ignorance.

 

~

 

He tinkers, he creates.

 

Ronon doesn’t ask.

 

As Lastlight slides a needle into his arm, he wonders what would have happened if Ronon had.

 

~

 

Michael’s eyes flutter open slowly. He mumbles under his breath, feeling sluggish and slow as he wakes, and he blinks the grains of sleep from his eyes, a yawn rippling through his body. His stomach gives a pang – he’s _hungry_. When was the last time he…that he…?

 

Michael sits up straighter, eyes flying open as he stares about at his surroundings. He can’t remember anything. He can’t…there are faint things, shadows that dance around his mind, foggy mirrors that he feels like he _could_ see past, if only he just – he groans, and rocks back, pressing his hands to his temples. Ouch. Maybe not. His brain feels like someone’s pushed a splinter in – not a sensation he’d like to aggravate or encourage. Michael moves to sit up again, the pain dissipating slightly, and he looks down as a rustling sound catches his attention. There’s a piece of paper with his name on it, and a message. It doesn’t say much, only that there is medication he needs to take, stored in one of the compartments. It’s signed _Lastlight_ , and there is a flickering like a candle at the back of Michael’s mind. Lastlight. Michael. Ok, he has a couple of things to be getting on with. He pushes himself up experimentally; he seems steadier now, managing to stand without too much trouble. Looking down, he’s surprised to find himself dressed like a wraith – and uncertain of how he knows he’s dressed like a wraith, or even how he knows about wraith at all.

 

The more he thinks on it, the more easily information on the wraith comes, and he begins to recognise the ship around him, even if only on an impersonal level. He moves to check the compartments first, and unearths a selection of syringes, all prepped and filled with the same liquid. Michael frowns, and checks further, but is unable to find a bottle or anything else that might indicate a further supply. Rereading the note, and scrabbling around in the back of the compartment, he can't find any instructions for making more either. Michael’s frown deepened. Maybe…he didn’t need an ongoing supply? Maybe the course of syringes was all he needed for…whatever they were for. He looks at the note yet again, willing the words to yield more information to him. Lastlight was decidedly taciturn with his communication, Michael thought, vaguely annoyed. He was reaching for a syringe, as he heard a clatter from outside. He straightens up immediately, facing the door as a man walks in, only to freeze at the sight of him.

 

Michael’s heart might have stopped for a beat or two. He _recognises_ this man. Was this Lastlight? He dismisses the thought almost as soon as it arrives. No. This man isn’t Lastlight. He doesn't know precisely how he knows, but he _does_. The knowledge is almost as thrilling as the unexplainable thump of affection that shoots through Michael. He can feel heat in his cheeks. He steps forward towards the man, who has stopped completely still, note clenched in Michael's fist, but forgotten.

 

“Hello,” Michael tries, “do we kno-”

 

“What the _hell_ is this supposed to be?” The man asks quietly, and Michael takes an impulsive, immediate step back at the fury lining every tensed cord of muscle. Michael’s face is still warm, even as his heart pounds for an entirely different reason now. The man speaks again, demands, “What the hell are you doing here?!”

 

Michael freezes, panic lacing through him. He's not sure if the man actually wants an answer. His voice is rough, and Michael feels like it should be warm, like he can _remember_ warmth, but this…talking to this man now is like trying to bite down on shattered glass. _Glass…_

 

“Ronon?” he tries, and there is a strange sensation in his mind, like he’s grasped at something and failed. He feels let down, and can’t understand why when the man – when _Ronon_ responds, eyes filling with shock at the sound of his own name. “That _is_ your name?” Michael tries, wanting to take a step forward, wanting to smile at real tangible familiarity, but still aware, every second, of how dangerous Ronon appears, without any apparent conscious effort. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t…actually remember? Anything? Except your name, and…and mine, and I…” Michael flounders, as Ronon continues to stare, shock being replaced by a cold kind of rage. The flutter in his chest seems like entirely the wrong sort to be feeling at this moment, Michael contemplates distantly.

 

“…I can’t fucking deal with this,” Ronon says finally, and Michael doesn’t stop him as he turns abruptly to leave the way he come, outside the ship. Michael didn’t realise he’d taken a step forward, until he was regretting it and backing up once again as he hears a yell from outside, and the thud of what he can only assume is flesh meeting a target in anger. Michael hesitates for a moment, hears the thuds and yelling take up a rhythmic beat, a worrying crunch as whatever Ronon was hitting began to succumb to the blows. He backs up to the farthest point in the room that he can – wonders if he should run, or at least move to another part of the ship. But he can’t be sure he’ll remember enough to get around it safely – and somehow, more importantly – he cannot bear the thought of leaving Ronon.

 

Michael doesn’t know what he’s _done_. Ronon is so angry, at him, at something _he’s_ done, but he won’t _tell him what it is._ Outside, destroying something with still relentless punching, but not explaining anything to Michael. Michael may not remember anything, but seeing Ronon, even a furious Ronon, stirs something warm inside him, makes him feel flushed and giddy with emotions he can’t understand but feels deeply and fiercely all the same. Michael _loves_ Ronon, of that he is certain, even without his memories. It is both a sudden realisation, and the remembrance of something burnt deep into Michael’s soul – something he knows absolutely and indubitably. But Ronon is furious, and he won’t tell, and Michael doesn’t know how to make it ok.

 

Michael sits curled up in the ship for what feels like an age, fiddling with the note and the syringes. He doesn’t know how much time has passed - Ronon is still outside – Michael can hear him punching things still. He wonders if he should go out and do something about it, but he doesn’t much like the idea of getting punched himself. But maybe he should anyway, if he loves Ronon? No one else has appeared – no Wraith, no humans. Not even Lastlight. Michael tentatively believes that he and Ronon might be travelling together.  Alone, perhaps? There is a fluttering in his stomach at the thought. He stares down at the syringes, picking one up and turning it over in his hands. He doesn’t know what to do. He reads the note again, carefully, and carefully pulls the casing off the needle. It’s difficult to roll up his sleeve, and so Michael ends up shucking off the long leathers altogether, feeling surprisingly bare without them.

 

But just as he slides the needle into his skin, there is thumping up into the ship, and Michael almost fumbles with the needle as Ronon bursts into the room, eyes beelining straight for Michael. His face contorts again, and in two-three quick steps, he’s snatched the syringe out of Michael’s hand, out of his arm. It hurts, and Michael hisses through his teeth at the rough sting. Looking down, there is blood beading on his arm. He glances back up at Ronon, and suddenly finds Ronon’s face has morphed, into something oddly soft and uncertain. Ronon is also staring at the gathering red on Michael’s skin. He sinks to his knees, slowly, and Michael’s stomach feels stuffed with butterflies. Ronon takes Michael’s arm in hand, suddenly gentle, _so gentle_ and so different to the brutality those same hands wrought outside not long ago.

 

Michael wonders what he might do, to keep those hands on him.

 

“…I’m sorry,” Ronon grinds out eventually, genuine compassion warring with his lingering anger. Ronon places the syringe on the ground with surprising tenderness given his earlier rough treatment, before swiping his thumb across the blood. It blurs across Michael’s skin, red and raw. Michael stares at it as Ronon does, trying to understand what he’s looking for.

 

“I need to take the medicine,” Michael tries softly, not wanting to anger Ronon. “L-Lastlight told me I needed to take it.”

 

Ronon looks up sharply. “ _Lastlight_ told you?” he asks.

 

“In the note,” Michael clarifies quickly. He scrambles for it, pushing it at Ronon. Ronon releases his arm, and Michael feels the loss immediately. But Ronon is unfolding the paler from where Michael had crumpled it, reading it with quick, sharp movements. He bares his teeth, faintly, crumpling the note even tighter than before. He doesn’t lash out again. Michael thinks Ronon is trying to be careful around him, but that might be wishful thinking. He _thinks_ he remembers Ronon – _knows_ he loves him – but thinking Ronon loves him in return might also be wishful thinking. “Are you ok?” he asks quietly, hesitantly rubbing at the drying blood on his arm, the flakes peeling off under his nails.

 

Ronon sighs. “Not really. I was expecting to find Lastlight in here, and I wasn’t happy to see you instead.” Michael’s heart sinks.

 

“I don’t know where Lastlight is,” he mumbles, despondent. He watches as Ronon taps on his leg, a frantic, repetitive motion, before his jaw clenches.

 

“You wouldn’t,” Ronon says finally. “You…”

 

He breathes. Steels himself.

 

“You’re Lastlight.”

 

…

 

That was not Michael had been expecting to hear. “I – how?” is the first thing out of his mouth, as he sits back, and tries to comprehend this. “But Lastlight…he wrote me a _note_ , why would he write me a note, if I’m – ”

 

“I have no idea,” Ronon interrupts, glaring at the note like it has personally offended him. “He chose to do this. I have no fucking clue why. A bunch of people did it to him – to you – a couple of times before. Without his permission both times, and he became you, both times. They’re the ones who called you Michael.”

 

A sick feeling stirs in Michael’s gut. He looks at his discarded coat, at his other clothes. Looks at the ship. “…Lastlight is a wraith,” he says quietly, and Ronon nods. “That’s why they turned him into me? Turned him human?” Him? Me? Michael had no idea how to refer to himself now. “Should I call myself Lastlight?” he wonders, and of all the questions he could and should be asking, if his name was really so relevant right now. “…is that a stupid question?” he asked, and Ronon snorted.

 

“No. Your name has always been important to you. They never thought of that before, because…well, none of us even knew Wraith had names. Sheppard was always calling them weird shit though.”

 

“Sheppard,” Michael turns the name over in his head. There is…there’s _something_. Not _just_ Sheppard, but…

 

“…I think the wraith have names for you guy too,” he said quietly, and Ronon looks at him again with something painful in his eyes.

 

“Yeah,” he says, sounding strangely wistful. “Pretty sure they do.”

 

~

 

Ronon lets him take _one_ of the syringes.

 

“We need to move on,” he says. “You can still fly. Recognised wraith schematics and shit even when you became Michael the first time around. But it wouldn’t be great if you started to turn back partway through the flight.”

 

Michael still doesn’t really get what’s going on, so he goes along. And things _are_ familiar when he stands at the controls. It’s a strange sensation, knowing so much about something whilst having no idea how he knows it. A couple of touches, however, and the ship comes alive, and Michael thinks the pondering will have to wait till later. It’s a soothing thing, to sink back into something instinctive; to feel as though he is rooted and steady for the first time since waking up.

 

 _Ronon is steady_ , Michael thinks, and chances a glance at him. Ronon is staring straight back, and Michael flushes as his head snaps back around, too late to pretend he wasn’t looking. Well. It wasn’t dissatisfying to know Ronon was watching _him_. But embarrassment still swirled in Michael’s gut, and he searched desperately for a way to detract from the moment whilst they flew through space.

 

 “…What were you hitting?” Michael asks, tentatively. “Outside, I mean. There was – ” he flushes. Of all the distractions he could muster. “…There was a lot of noise.”

 

He doesn’t turn around to see if Ronon’s still looking at him, but Michael can _feel_ embarrassment radiating from Ronon behind him. “Was a tree,” he mumbles. “Knocked it in half in the end.”

 

Michael can’t help the surprised bubble of laughter in his throat, and this time he does turn to look back at Ronon, smile wide and genuine on his face. It looked like Ronon couldn’t help the surprised look of affection he shot Michael in return.

 

~

 

That didn’t mean Ronon let Lastlight get away with anything. The transition felt different every time, and this one was accompanied with a throbbing headache. Lastlight groaned, twisting onto his side.

 

“The hell were you doing,” Ronon snaps, right beside Lastlight on the thin pallets they’d piled up for beds in one of the few rooms. Ronon had moved Michael there when he’d started to change back; that strange mix of human and wraith that disoriented both, and which had always been such a source of pain This time had been…had been… Lastlight twists back, thrusting his face into the insufficient padding of the pallet. _What was he doing_ , Ronon asks. As though Lastlight has any idea why he dies _anything_ , these days.

 

“I’m not gonna leave it,” Ronon prods, and Lastlight marvels as he often does at Ronon’s uncanny ability to read thoughts without any psychic ability. Slowly, sadly, Lastlight moves his hand until his fingers curl around the edge of Ronon’s vest. His head still hurts, he still feels guilty, but he is selfish too, and he wants Ronon no matter how much he hurts him. Surely, he has proven that by now.

 

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Lastlight sighs, “But I can’t promise it won’t happen again.”

 

Ronon is silent, and Lastlight tightens his grip.

 

“You told me,” Lastlight says quietly. Ronon makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat. “Michael. You told Michael that he was a wraith.”

 

“I did,” Ronon agreed. “S’been my plan ever since we first met. Felt kinda cool finally getting to do it, when I wasn’t busy being mad as hell.” He moved, resting his hand atop Lastlight’s fingers. “I was totally right too. It was way better – well, you remember. No one got killed.”

 

Lastlight winced. He still felt bad about the soldier – of all the things that had happened, of all the deaths, that one stood out stark in his brain. He hadn’t known – hadn’t stopped to think that human weapons might be lethal. A lethal weapon was, to a wraith, useless. What good were humans without lifeforce in them? Even in the coldest, most detached mindset of a wraith, it would have been _waste_. But the guns did little to stop wraith, only slow them. He hadn’t known – hadn’t intended…

 

All useless thoughts. He could not change the past.

 

 

_(A past that, for all its tragedies and pain, had brought him here.)_

_(In another world, in another life, would Ronon and Lastlight have ever even crossed paths?_

_(Would they have been anything more than mutual predators on opposite sides of an impossible war?)_

 

 

“I hadn’t thought there would be an eventuality where I could _know_ what I was, and what had been done, without losing myself,” was what came out of Lastlight mouth, a thought he hadn’t even seen forming within his mind. “The pain, the…” _madness._ “I thought that was it. That suffering was a foregone conclusion.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Ronon sighs, and detangles the two of them long enough to lie himself next to Lastlight. He re-tangles their fingers and flings his free arm over Lastlight’s waist, “for a guy so smart you always were pretty good at making really dumb choices.”

 

It is an insult. Nonetheless, Lastlight smiles, and presses himself closer to Ronon as they sink into sleep.

 

~

 

Lastlight doesn’t stop. It is a strange sort of addiction, to be able to rewrite his DNA far more effectively than Atlantis ever had. He could have eliminated the memory issues, but…well. That would have somewhat defeated the point.

 

Not that that ever stopped Ronon.

 

~

 

Michael’s eyes blink open, and he flushes at the dark, bearded face directly in front of his. He opens his mouth to speak, just as the other man ducks in, kissing him quickly before pulling back, keeping one hand on Michael’s shoulder, and the other on his cheek.

 

“Your name is Michael at the moment, but usually it’s Lastlight. You’re a wraith but for some fucking reason you keep turning yourself human. Any questions?”

 

“Um,” Michael responds elegantly. “Do – are we – ”

 

“We like hanging out together. And sometimes we kiss and stuff.”

 

Michael likes the roguish, insincere smile on Ronon’s face. He also likes that he apparently remembers Ronon’s name, despite not remembering anything else, regardless of Ronon’s rundown.

 

“Ok,” Michael agrees. “That’s. Ok.” He licks his lower lip, eyes flicking to Ronon’s. “We can – do more of that if you want?”

 

Ronon’s smile gets even more smug.

 

~

 

“You are so all over me as Michael,” he informs Lastlight with unadulterated glee, when the other is back to himself. Lastlight frowns at him fuzzily and doesn’t point out that it’s Michael who never remembers, not him. He’s too embarrassed by the fact that Ronon is right.

 

“You know…” Lastlight chokes on the words, but something of Michael’s innocence-loosened tongue is still in him, because he continues, “you know my regard for you. Even without memories, it would not fade so easily.”

 

Ronon scoffs, though there is tenderness there. Heartbreak. “ _Regard_ ,” he mocks. “Just say you have the hots for me, seriously. _Regard_ is what I have for Sheppard. You and I…”

 

Lastlight knows what he’s going to do before it happens; and welcomes the kiss with a desperateness that only comes with knowing something can be taken from you at any moment. But the kiss is long and lingering, and Lastlight’s fingers rest on Ronon’s cheeks by the time they part, Ronon’s gaze searching and certain. _Lastlight can’t understand it_.

 

“That,” Ronon tells him, “Is not _regard_. That’s something way better.”

 

Lastlight remembers Michael. He remembers flushing.

 

( _It’s a lie, to say he doesn’t know why he does it._ )

 

~

 

They’re forced to abandon the ship. It was an inevitable outcome - the wraith don’t like ships they don’t know the commanders of, and humans just don’t like wraith ships at all. But it deprives Lastlight of a lab, and he is forced back into his own skin without escape. They begin to travel by Stargate more, as Lastlight scouts for bases and other ships they might commandeer. Ronon is not in half so much of a rush as Lastlight is – he knows the dangers that Lastlight faces are worse than those that face him – full human as he now is, not even a strand of white hair remaining from his time as Clear.

 

But, Ronon is certain of his ability to defend Lastlight, should he need to. Lastlight isn’t sure enough of his desire to be defended.

 

He’s considered, on many occasions, trying to argue that they are _both_ better off if he becomes Michael longer term. They would be able to blend in better with humans, would be able to travel more freely. The wraith wouldn’t even be any _more_ of a problem than they already are – and Ronon is more than capable of evading them.

 

Lastlight never actually tries to argue this.

 

He couldn’t bear to see Ronon’s face if he did.

 

Nonetheless, it truly has become an addiction, and Lastlight is unable to tolerate his own reflection for very long. He had been so furious, so scared every time Atlantis had threatened to turn him back to Michael, so scared of losing everything he was to a void of ignorance and lies. But that was before he knew that he’d already been irrevocably changed. He would never be fully wraith again – that, the Lanteans really had taken from him forever. Lastlight liked becoming Michael no more than he had before, but it had become a hideously familiar pattern, and for those first moments upon waking, wiped clean and light – there was peace.

 

 

( _He’s so deep in his own mind these days, it is difficult for Ronon to pull him out of it.)_

 

 

They eventually find an abandoned warehouse to serve as their home for a while. Parts are crumbling dangerously, likely the reason it had been left abandoned. However, it serves their purpose well – deserted of humans as it was, it shouldn’t be a target for the wraith either. Lastlight and Ronon work together to section off the most dangerous parts, carving out their make-shift living space from the rest.

 

“Found a bedroom,” Ronon announces, poking his head out of the aforementioned room. “Dumped the bedding stuff in there.”

 

Lastlight looks up from where he’s playing with wiring in the wall, and blinks away the immersive fog from his mind. “Are there other rooms?” is the first thing he says, nonsense questions he already knows the answer to. Ronon stares at him with fond amusement.

 

“Well, yeah,” he says. “But I figured we could spend some time in this one first.”

 

Beyond blushing and butterflies as he is, Lastlight is still reduced to opening and closing his mouth like a fish before Ronon takes pity, ducking out of the room to grab Lastlight by the wrist, pulling him into the bedroom with a firm, warm grip.

 

~

 

_Ronon touches him, and he isn’t repulsed._

_Lastlight arches beneath him, his back pressed against the bedding, chest to chest, legs shaking around Ronon’s waist._

_His nails dig tracks into Ronon’s back, Ronon grips at his human-short hair._

_Lastlight’s world explodes –_

_– and there is peace_.

 

~

 

They take a long time to rise the next day. Lastlight is surprised at his own idleness, but the buzzing is quiet in his mind, and he is curled around Ronon’s back, body soft and languid. Ronon is clasping his hands, from where Lastlight’s thrown his arms over Ronon’s chest – and whilst he is mindful of the feeding slit, he is not tense or disgusted by it. Lastlight hasn’t been able to put such fears to rest, before. Ronon’s hair tickles at his face, but Lastlight buries himself closer, pressing his cold nose against the bumps of Ronon’s spine. Ronon laughs; a rumbling motion across his body before he twists about, until they are suddenly nose to nose. Lastlight’s arms are left akimbo until Ronon grabs at the again, bringing their re-clasped hands together between them.

 

“I think I stopped being mad at you,” Ronon says, tone matter of fact. Lastlight is quiet, inside and out. Eventually he finds it in himself to answer, lazy and languid.

 

“I think I stopped being mad,” he admits quietly. _Even if it was just for a moment._ His eyes close, and he revels in the _warmth_ Ronon provides.

 

 

_You should stop becoming Michael._

_You’re mad, but you’re mine._

_You don’t need to change yourself._

_Please, don’t change yourself._

 

 

Ronon says none of this, but Lastlight hears it. He presses forward to kiss Ronon, long and languid on the mouth. It is, he thinks, their first kiss that he has initiated.  _I’ll try_ , he doesn’t reply. Their minds no longer touch – Ronon is perceptive, but he is not a telepath. Lastlight may have belonged to a hive mind, albeit one he is no longer able to immerse himself into, but he is no Queen. He cannot touch any mind outside of that web. Nevertheless, he thinks as their foreheads press together, they may just understand each other anyway.

 

~

 

Lastlight has not become Michael for several weeks, now. Their home has gone undetected so far, and so they do not plan to move on for a while yet. Lastlight is reluctant to start up a lab of any kind, lest he fall to temptation. He misses Michael, in a way – it is not fair of him to do so – not fair _on_ him to do so. He knows that Michael is just a facet of him, without memory and without _hunger_ , that all-defining trait of the wraith. He remembers pain, he remembers rage – he remembers begging them not to change him again, to avoid that all-encompassing fear of losing everything that makes him _him_. Ronon helps, with that. Lastlight had not expected him to tell Michael everything, but he cannot regret it now that he has. No matter how much it _burns_ ; knowing how differently everything would have gone if the Lanteans had listened to Ronon all along.

 

He doesn’t deserve Ronon. Hasn’t from the days Ronon wanted him dead, to the days Lastlight wanted him a wraith, to these days were Ronon somehow, inexplicably, wanted Lastlight as himself. Lastlight isn’t entirely sure if he thought Ronon would – _prefer_ – Michael. He hadn’t liked Michael before, but Lastlight had understood that as hatred for the wraith underneath, not the human. Hatred for _Lastlight._ Being Michael would have made Ronon’s life easier – there was no question of that. Two humans, travelling together – they could have made a far better life for it.

 

And Lastlight knows now more than even that he would always love Ronon Dex, no matter what form he took.

 

Some things, he thinks, go deeper than bones and DNA.

 

~

 

“Sometimes I wonder,” Ronon begins one night, as he and Lastlight sit opposite sides of a narrow corridor with their legs brushing each other, “what it would be like if you were Michael, and I was Clear.”

 

Lastlight looks up sharply at that. “You hated being wraith,” he reminds Ronon. States the obvious; pretends there isn’t lingering bitterness in his voice. Ronon’s glance tells him it did not slip by.

 

“Yeah, and you hated being human,” Ronon points out. “You told everyone that enough back on Atlantis. But now you keep doing it.” He shifted, moving his legs till the crossed over with Lastlight’s. It is a strange entanglement, and a pressing comfort. Ronon’s affection is still strange, Lastlight thinks. Not that he minds, still grasping at every moment he is given. “You keep making yourself human. I thought I didn’t get it – but I think I do now.”

 

 _Sometimes I miss it too_.

 

Lastlight’s eyes close, pain flickering across his expression. He thinks of Clear, thinks of his warmth, of his easy openness. Lastlight is – Lastlight _was_ warmth and comfort; illumination and enlightenment. _A blade with the heart of a cleverman_. But he has never been honest the way Clear was. The way Ronon still is, no matter how humanity eases the betrayal of one’s soul. “I have not…I cannot forgive myself for what I did to you,” Lastlight admits, voice shuddering as he is unable to look at Ronon. “I knew exactly what I was doing, and I knew exactly how it would feel. I knew _Ronon_ would break through Clear, just as I broke through Michael, no matter how many times Atlantis did…what they did.” _What I now do willingly._ “I don’t understand how you stand being near me.”

 

The truth hurt, Lastlight thought. Not others, but one’s own self, like knives and splintered glass pushing down his throat as the words clawed out. Ronon’s truth was almost unbearable in its absoluteness.

 

Lastlight still doesn’t look up, although he feels like choking when Ronon stands, certain he will leave – except Ronon doesn’t leave, only moves to sit beside Lastlight, pulling him down roughly so Lastlight’s head comes to land on Ronon’s shoulder. Lastlight’s breath is shuddering, and Ronon only tugs him closer.

 

“It sucked,” Ronon tells him, and Lastlight’s eyes close, pained. “I mean – it _really_ sucked. It was a shitty thing to do. But I get it. I get you, now.” There is a distance in Ronon’s voice, and Lastlight’s heart clenches as he wishes, _desperately_ , that he could feel even a hint of that mind brush against his. “I forgive you, you know?” Ronon says finally, and Lastlight feels the tickle of hair as Ronon rests his head atop his. “I did a long time ago. I get it, and I forgive you. And I’m gonna keep fucking saying it until you believe me, you idiot.”

 

Lastlight laughs. It is sudden, but genuine, and it shocks him more than it surprises Ronon. He can’t say anything; can’t respond to the gifts Ronon gives him, knowing how he doesn’t deserve them. But he twists his body, arm curling around Ronon’s waist as Ronon’s shifts around his shoulders. _This is mine_ , Lastlight thinks, something giddy to the thought. Even if just for a moment – even if heartbreakingly temporary – this moment is his. Ronon and Ronon’s love are _his_.

 

 _Maybe, for now,_ Lastlight thinks, _it is enough._

_Maybe this_ , he thinks as his eyes slip shut, _could be peace at last._


End file.
